


Let Me Be Your Man

by rubirosas



Category: GLOW (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-16
Updated: 2019-08-16
Packaged: 2020-09-02 01:07:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20267524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubirosas/pseuds/rubirosas
Summary: I won't only love you when you're winningOther fools pretend to understandCome on, take my hand, we'll go down swinging.(Or, A series of s2-related vignettes exploring the evolution of Sam and Ruth's relationship, leading up to eventual canon divergence/fix-it fic for end of s2.)





	Let Me Be Your Man

**Author's Note:**

> For Jess and Lisa. <3

_ I'm done with sleep _

_ Imagined things _

_ 'Cause dreams aren't dreams _

_ 'Til you wake up _

She still isn’t sure that Sam Sylvia even likes her (in as much as Sam could  _ like  _ anyone) but he’s the only one that Ruth can call. He’s a notorious asshole, but she somehow knows that he won’t be an asshole about this. And anyway, who else would it be? Under normal circumstances, a girl would call the father, or if she was keeping it from him, her best friend. She tries to imagine calling Mark--stupid climbing-through-the-window goddamn Mark--but that’s as likely as calling Debbie. 

Debbie. Jesus Christ. Ruth has always had an overactive imagination, but even she can’t bring herself to imagine how that particular conversation would go down. Neither has she allowed herself to consider an alternative to the clinic. What, so boring baby Randy could have a boring baby sibling from his mother’s ex-best friend? Not to mention the decade in Los Angeles down the drain. Fuck. That. 

So, Sam it is. As expected, when he picks her up, he’s nonchalant, no questions, not much of anything until they’re at the clinic. Ruth, too, is doing her best to avoid unnecessary emotion. Compartmentalizing is how she’s survived ten years of auditions, director’s notes, and endless admonitions to be skinnier, curvier, less brunette,  _ more  _ brunette, shorter, taller, and every other impossibility. 

And then he calls himself her husband and Ruth realizes that Sam Sylvia is fucking nervous. Or maybe it’s just the coke. Either way, he distracts her from her own nerves for a few moments. Maybe he doesn’t really despise her. It’s not that Ruth has to be liked by everyone, but neither is she Debbie, who’s too pretty and blonde and statuesque to give a fuck if anyone likes her. Besides, Ruth prides herself on maintaining good professional relationships. Of course, asking your director to give you a ride to the abortion clinic probably crosses more than a few professional boundaries. 

By the time she’s lying there on the table, cold and awkward, Ruth is calm enough to compartmentalize again. She runs through a mental to-do list. Pick up dry-cleaning. Buy new toothbrush. Talk to Jenny about costuming. Run through Zoya storylines with potential scene partners. 

Zoya. The only thing she’s done right in what feels like forever. Ignoring the rustling of her paper gown and the clinical voices of the doctor and nurse, Ruth lets her imagination run wild, the bright lights of the procedure room morphing into the stage lights of the wrestling ring. 

When they finally bring Ruth back out to the waiting room, the only one left there is Sam, anxiously tapping his foot and glancing at the clock on the wall. She wonders again if he’s just bored, if he’s high, or if he truly does give a damn. And then he looks over at her and Ruth sees something like genuine concern in his eyes. He doesn’t immediately say anything, as if waiting for permission, though it’s unclear for what. 

After a moment, she lets out a breath and says in her most incredulous Zoya voice, “Decadent Western doctors giving pain pills instead of good Soviet vodka!” 

Sam lets out a raspy laugh. “Good one, good one, Strindberg.” He gets up then and as her ‘husband’ guides her out to the car, his hand on the small of her back. On the return drive to the motel, there’s a subtle shift between them and the silence is more charged than before. When they finally pull into the parking lot, Sam asks, “Are you--”

But before he can finish, fucking Melrose is banging on Ruth’s window, yelling something about Sheila and more roadkill. Ruth cringes and hurriedly gets out of the car. They hear Sam shouting “What the fuck?” at Melrose, but nobody sees the way his gaze lingers on Ruth as the girls start toward one of their rooms. 

Later, as Ruth lies in bed reflecting on the day, she doesn’t think of Mark or Debbie or the cold exam table. Instead, almost to her own surprise, she falls asleep to the memory of a warm hand on her back and a raspy voice saying “Good one, good one.”


End file.
